


Ambush

by AndThenHeGotKnockedUp



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Feral Malcolm, Feral Malcolm Bright, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Spitroasting, this is mostly noncon, with a little set up and a little comfort at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp/pseuds/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp
Summary: Prompt: All I want is a bunch of asshole cops who hate someone on the team taking it out on Malcolm. Malcolm fights back at first, but either he's already hurt or three or more on one is too much.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 145
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	Ambush

Malcolm knows something is wrong as soon as he enters his building. The locks have been tampered with. They’re not flat out broken, and maybe if he hadn’t grown up learning from Gil and then worked in the FBI, he wouldn’t have noticed that they were jimmied open.

He should call Gil. Or at least 911 in general.

The problem is that he’s tired. The last two hours were spent in the hospital, talking with doctors and then his father himself, discussing what was going to happen now that Martin was awake. The man was nothing but happy to see him there, like always, but Malcolm couldn’t forget what it felt like to stab him. Couldn’t forget what it felt like to _murder_ , because he was sure he would miss at the time. In another life, he might have followed in his father’s footsteps and become a doctor. In this one, he refused to learn anything more than the basic medical training the FBI required. 

All he wants to do tonight is strap himself into bed and dream of anything other than that ceramic pick. He’ll even take the Girl over it. 

He cautiously walks up the steps and unlocks the door, easing it open and surveying the loft before walking through the threshold. 

There’s a man studying his weapon collection. He can’t see anyone else.

Privately, he’s relieved that he installed new, more complicated locks on his glass cases after the incident with Eve. “So, what do you think?” he calls out with a sharp smirk on his face. “A beautiful collection, isn’t it?”

The man hums. “Expensive.”

“But not easy to pawn,” Malcolm warns cheerfully. “They’re much too distinct. Anyone remotely reputable will go through the right channels, and you won’t get a dime.You won’t get nearly as much as they’re worth from shadier ones. You might want to try another loft.”

There’s a sound off to the side. He barely has time to register it and turn before he’s instinctively dodging a punch. There’s a second man. This one he can see the face of, and something runs cold in Malcolm as he realizes he’s seen him before.

He’s a detective at the precinct. One that’s been around since Malcolm was a teenager. Detective Paulson, he thinks.

It shocks him enough that he doesn’t notice a third man coming up behind him, wrapping a thick, muscled arm around his neck. Instinctually, the profiler tucks his head into the crook of the man’s elbow, grabs ahold of it, and pivots to break the hold and twist the arm back. This man, too, is familiar. Detective Morgan. He worked with Gil for a year or two before Malcolm went off to Harvard. He was always an asshole. 

A fist smacks into the back of the profiler’s head, sending him to the floor. He lands face first with his nose taking the brunt of the fall. He’d be surprised if it wasn’t broken. Pulling himself up off the floor, he wipes at the first trickle of blood and looks around the room. 

The first man, the man whose face he hadn’t seen, has turned to observe him now. Unsurprisingly, he knows this man, too. Sergeant Williams was Gil’s old partner, and Malcolm has met him more than a few times. 

Paulson goes for him again. Malcolm manages to dodge a second time, but now he’s at a three on one disadvantage, and, with pain shooting through his nose, he can’t so easily adjust to the way Morgan yanks his arms behind his back until his shoulders scream. The detective cuffs his wrists together. Malcolm snaps his head upwards, however, and knocks him off balance with a sick crack.

He knows how to work his way out of handcuffs. He’s done it before, many times, but the fucker behind him made them painfully tight, and he doesn’t have time. 

Paulson gets him in the gut on the third try. 

Malcolm doubles over with a grunt. Blood is leaking into his mouth now, down from his broken nose both through his throat and over his lip. He’s grabbed from behind again, Morgan cursing him out, and when Paulson approaches, Malcolm lashes out with a leg.

Which the Detective catches. He wrangles the profiler’s other leg, hauling him up with Morgan’s help until they have him in the air, desperately trying to break free of their hands. 

“Should we put the little bitch on the bed?” Morgan grunts out. “We could tie him up with his own cuffs.”

“It’s no wonder Gil didn’t keep you around for long,” Malcolm hisses as he twists his upper body. He doesn’t have enough leverage to get far.

“I think he’s calling you stupid,” Paulson says mockingly.

“Bring him over to the bed.” Williams walks there idly and sits down on the edge of the mattress, unbuckling his pants to pull out a half hard cock. “I can shut him up.”

The two detectives follow his lead. When they get Malcolm to the bed, they toss him on the floor and force him onto his knees before he can get himself up. 

“Do you really want to put that in my mouth? I’ve been told I bite hard.” The profiler gives him a bloody smile to back the threat up. He’s still not wholly sure of why they’ve chosen to attack him, especially when they should know he would recognize them, though he has an inkling it has something to do with Gil. All three of his attackers have been at the precinct long enough to have worked with him at some point or another. Not everyone liked Gil’s quick rise in the ranks. 

Williams opens his jacket just enough to pull his handgun out of the holster he’s still wearing. He flicks the safety off and rests it against Malcolm’s forehead. “I’m not too afraid of you, kid. Matter of fact…” He trails the gun down from his forehead, brushing his swelling nose, tracing the line of his jaw, and then ending back up at his bloodstained mouth. “How about a test run?”

Paulson shoves him forward, the gun glancing over his cheek before he can right himself again. “Open up, Whitly.”

“If you satisfy my friends and I, we’ll leave,” the Sergeant says calmly.

But Malcolm doubts that. He’s seen their faces. Still, if only to give himself more time to figure a way out of this mess, he reluctantly opens his mouth. 

The gun doesn’t move.

“It won’t suck itself. Pretend it’s Arroyo’s dick,” Morgan snickers behind him. 

Definitely about Gil, then. Watching Williams, knowing that he’s the leader here, Malcolm leans forward and licks a line up the barrel of the gun, just barely catching the man’s fingers at the start. He tongues the muzzle before wrapping his lips around it. 

The Sergeant reaches down with his free hand and unashamedly fondles himself as he watches. 

With a deep breath, Malcolm sinks onto the barrel. Now that it’s in his mouth, he’s able to place the taste of it. It’s the overbearing taste of a grab bag of chemicals with the odd aftertaste of the banana-like smell of Hoppe’s 9, turned up a few degrees. As his nose continues to swell, he tastes less and less of the banana and more of the solvents. He gags on it and pulls back. Taking another deep breath, he forces himself to take in the entire barrel, the tip of his tongue and his bottom lip grazing Williams’ knuckles as he swallows around it. 

The man in question smirks, his cock leaking in his hand. “What a good boy.”

Malcolm leans back and twists his tongue around the muzzle before diving in for more. He’s careful not to let the gun scrape against his palate or clank against his teeth, but it’s awkward in his mouth, too stiff and unyielding. He repeats the process three, four times before Williams reholsters his handgun.

“He’s not the only one with a gun,” Paulson warns him. “Don’t be stupid, Whitly.”

Morgan helpfully touches the muzzle of his own firearm to the back of Malcolm’s head and pushes, making him stumble closer to Williams.

The Sergeant laughs as he takes the offer, threading his fingers through the profiler’s hair and gripping hard. “Just remember, if you bite, you won’t live to suck Arroyo’s dick again, kid.” 

All he can taste still is the vile flavor of the gun oil. He’s almost grateful for it as he wraps his lips around Williams, swirling his tongue around the bulbous head. 

Williams groans and wrenches him forward. “Paulson, why don’t you go grab the lube? There’s no reason you boys can’t have fun, too.”

It’s impossible to breathe around the man’s cock, not with his broken nose, and he gags around it, his throat seizing with both panic and lack of air until the Sergeant graciously pulls him off. A thick, red tinged string of spit connects Malcolm’s mouth and the length in front of him. 

He’s yanked down again almost immediately. Williams controls every movement, forcing him to take it deeper whenever he pleases. Malcolm can’t even brace himself with his hands still cuffed behind him. He chokes and sputters and heaves.

“I trust you won’t voluntarily bite me,” the man says eventually, letting go of his head, “but I’m not sure I want to risk an accident while they prep you.”

Malcolm laughs hoarsely. “Prep me? I would think a police sergeant would know that no amount of lube stops it from being rape.”

Brushing the profiler’s tousled hair back, Williams smiles. “Don’t misunderstand me. We plan on playing with you all night. A little slick means you won’t break as quickly.”

Morgan hugs Malcolm from behind, trapping his hands between them so that he can’t try anything. His hands travel to the younger man’s pants and unbutton and unzip them until they can be pushed down to pool at his knees. He tugs the boxer briefs down as well. Then he moves away, gun in hand once again.

It’s Paulson that touches him next. With a firm hand, he bends Malcolm over to rest partly in Williams’ lap. 

“Lick,” the Sergeant orders.

Malcolm does.

Two hands grip his ass and spread the cheeks wide to reveal his hole. Paulson snickers behind him. “I bet you Arroyo’s been back here, too.” 

Malcolm closes his eyes. Or tries to, opening them again as a hand lightly slaps his face. 

There’s a soft snap as Paulson opens a bottle of lube. If the profiler could see it, he would note that it was clearly brought from home, unsealed and partially used. The Detective squeezes some out onto his fingers. He doesn’t bother to warm it up, just goes right for Malcolm’s hole, rubbing his slick fingers over it before sinking one in. He thrusts it back and forth for maybe thirty seconds before adding another.

 _Relax_ , Malcolm tells himself. _Don’t tense._

Paulson adds more lube to his fingers before thrusting a third in. “You’re missing out on a show, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“A damn good one,” Morgan confirms. There’s a noise coming from his direction, a rustling of clothes, the grating of a zipper.

A grunt.

Malcolm shudders as he laps at Williams’ sack. At least if the Detective cums now, it’s one less time he’ll be able to fuck him.

A fourth finger works its way into his ass, thrusting and spreading to get him as slick as possible in a short period of time. They don’t need him to enjoy it per se. 

When he’s suddenly empty, Malcolm knows what’s coming next. His hands tremble against his back. 

Slick hands grip his hips as he’s penetrated for the first time that night, his muscles burning with the stretch, Paulson’s cock going much deeper than his fingers had. “Oh, he’s a tight one, boys,” he breathes out. His hips twitch involuntarily. 

Morgan moves for a better view. He’s still jerking himself, not too fast and not too slow. That changes as soon as Williams pulls Malcolm’s mouth back onto his cock with one smooth motion. “Yeah, fuck that slut,” he moans, stripping his shaft faster. 

It’s overwhelming. The detective behind him is fucking him hard enough to fill the loft with slick clapping, his thrusts fast and his grip bruising. Although Malcolm’s no stranger to a good dicking, it _burns_. His body is just starting to become aroused against his will, but even then, it’s slow, the stretch and the fear delaying the process. He tries not to tense. He _knows_ not to tense, and yet it’s hard not to, with his breathing cut off by the hard cock in his throat and the fracture in his nose. 

“I remember the way you used to look at him.” Williams holds him down against his pubes, idly petting his hair as he gags, bleeding all over the man’s crotch. “We all wondered when he’d give in and fuck you, Detective Arroyo’s little twink. Did you keep him warm on all those stakeouts?”

Paulson hauls him back so hard that the Sergeant’s dick nearly pops out of his mouth. “How does that feel, Whitly?” he groans. He’s filling Malcolm up. Bare.

The profiler forces himself not to dwell on all of the possible STIs he could be getting. A rope of cum hitting his back helps, perversely enough. He tries to lean away when Morgan wipes a slick hand off on his shoulder. _Two down_ , he thinks. _Just one more._ He’s not stupid enough to think they’ll be done with him, but it might mean a break.

Williams continues to fuck his face, thrusting up and pulling down at the same time, reveling in the way that throat spasms around him. The thick, wet choking noises only make him harder. The blood streaming down Malcolm’s face is what pushes him over. He grinds the profiler’s face against his crotch as he shoots down his throat. 

When Williams finally lets go of him, he falls over, just barely able to twist and save his face from meeting the floor a second time. He hears the men chortle at him. He can’t muster the energy to say something. He’s too busy trying to breathe. His dick is half hard.

Someone hauls him up onto the bed. He coughs bloody semen onto his duvet.

“I think we wore him out, boys,” Williams says. There’s a smile in his voice. 

Malcolm wishes he could spit the man’s cum back in his face.

“Too bad,” Morgan grunts. “I’m ready to go again.”

“Don’t hurt him too much,” Paulson says sullenly. “We only got one ride so far.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The bed dips as Morgan climbs up next to the profiler. He lays behind him, a parody of intimacy, and guides his dick into the leaking hole. 

Malcolm shakes his head, breathing hard. 

The detective doesn’t care. He barely bottoms out before he begins rutting into the younger man, taking his pleasure without a single thought to his partner. Why would he? He doesn’t care about Malcolm. He only cares about hurting Gil.

The other two men watch, letting the show get them hard for a second round of their own. 

“He’s still tight,” Morgan says with a laugh. “You got a small dick, Paulson?”

“Fuck off.”

Malcolm closes his eyes. It’s all he can do. He can’t even clutch at the bed, what with his hands still cuffed. Each thrust jars his body. It doesn’t even hurt that badly, really, since they bothered to lube him up some, and Paulson’s spend only added to it. His cock is fully erect now, leaking against his stomach. He prays it goes down. At least in this position, the blood running down his face is soaking the bed rather than flooding his mouth. 

When Morgan comes, he bites down on Malcolm’s shoulder, holding his hips down as hard as possible. His teeth break the skin. 

Malcolm hisses but otherwise doesn’t give him a reaction. This man seems like the most aggressive out of the three, unsurprisingly given what he remembers about him. Gil once warned Malcolm about staying away from him. He had a bad feeling, he claimed, and the younger man, then a teen, knew to trust him. Hearing that he was left behind and reassigned when Gil was promoted was enough of a confirmation. He knows better than to provoke this man while outnumbered. At least not without a plan ready. 

“Move aside,” Williams says, and Morgan obeys with only a short grumbling about afterglow. “Help me shift him.”

Together, they pull Malcolm up closer to the head of the bed. Williams sits propped up against the headboard and indicates for them to help manhandle the profiler onto his lap. “I’ve always thought you were something special, kid,” he says with a mocking smile. He holds his dick still with one hand and eases Malcolm down with the other. “‘Atta boy.”

He can’t hold back the wince. He’s _sore_. His erection flags. 

Thankfully, Williams doesn’t expect him to do any work. The man lifts him up and drops him down on his own, smirking at the lost expression on Malcolm’s face. “Perk up. We have the _whole_ night together.” He shifts, unbalancing the profiler, who slumps forward to lean on his rapist. 

The temptation to bite is there. His face is so close to Williams’ neck. If he could just get the right angle and latch on, break through with his teeth and _rip_ …

“Am I not enough for you anymore?” Williams sounds gleeful. “Paulson, I’m sure jerking it isn’t nearly as satisfying now that you’ve fucked him. C’mere.”

The fear rockets through him as he realizes what is about to happen. His whole body tenses, full of adrenaline, and he considers the damage he could do with it, how he could tear into the leader and get to Paulson, at least, if he’s quick enough. 

Morgan presses his gun against Malcolm’s neck. “Don’t forget about me, slut.”

He’s not looking, but he can tell when Paulson gets on the bed, how he moves up to join them. He hears the snap of the bottle of lube opening up. He feels the cold, slimy finger that traces where Williams is buried deep inside him. He hides his head in the man’s neck and trembles.

A finger slips in.

Williams pets his hair. “Shhh, you can take it. Relax.”

Behind him, Paulson thrusts his finger in and out, rubbing up against the Sergeant with every move, crooking his finger and trying to make space for himself. He pours more lube on his hand and adds a second digit. 

Malcolm seizes at the stretch, gnashing his teeth together when it’s too soon, too much. His wrists strain against the handcuffs, fingers spread wide. 

“It’s just another finger,” Williams says soothingly. His cock twitches at the added stimulation. 

Morgan snorts. “I’m surprised Arroyo didn’t share the whore. He could’ve been a captain by now if he passed his little pet around.”

“Gil earned his rank,” Malcolm bites out against the Sergeant’s neck. 

Said man threads his fingers through the profiler’s hair and yanks. There are blood smears where his face rested. “Do you mind repeating that? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” He leans in and devours his mouth, biting on a bloody lip, and revelling in the fact that he can do so without being bitten himself. “Paulson, work faster. I’m getting impatient.”

A third finger. Paulson is really working him open now, spreading his fingers and thrusting them alongside his boss, and it’s too much, too much.

Malcolm feels overextended. His cock is completely limp now. He feels like he’s going to break, like something is going to give and it won’t be any of the cops in the room. He wonders if they plan to fuck him bloody and leave him to bleed out in his own bed. Leave him for Gil to find. Do they plan on calling him? Sending a note? Otherwise he knows it’s more likely his mother will come over for one of her surprise visits first. 

Paulson removes his fingers and fists his cock, using the leftover lube to get himself ready. When Williams nods, he starts to force his way inside. 

There’s a scream, a ragged wail of pain, and it takes Malcolm a moment to realize that it’s _him_. He’s in agony. The fingers were bad enough, but Paulson isn’t a small man, his dick forcing his body to its limit, _past_ it, every inch of his ass on fire as he’s stuffed to the brim. When he manages to get a grip on himself again, he’s sobbing.

It isn’t enough to cover Morgan’s grunts or the slick rhythm of his hand not far from Malcolm’s head.

Williams rocks his hips up, dragging another shout out of him.

As painful as that is, however, Paulson has the most leverage, and when he begins to thrust, the profiler feels powerless, too caught up in the fire to do much other than let them manhandle him and scream feebly. 

Which Williams doesn’t like. The Sergeant hauls his head up from where it rests and motions for the third cop to join them. “He knows not to bite.”

Morgan gladly takes over the grip and crams his cock into Malcolm’s bloody mouth. “Fuck yeah.”

“I think he likes it,” Paulson says breathlessly. “He’s clenching down on us, aren’t you, Whitly?”

Anything he could say is lost, garbled around Morgan as he struggles not to choke at the rapid pace. The blood is no longer streaming from his nose, but there’s so much of it in his mouth, mixed with his spit, that he can taste the heavy tang of iron all the way down. He gags and whines. His throat feels ripped raw, his nose throbs, and his ass feels stretched thin.

He feels like passing out.

With a pleased groan, Morgan mashes Malcolm’s head into his crotch. 

Spots swim in his eyes. A laugh swells up in his chest. It feels panicky, hysterical, tight. He’s going to die this way, choking on a cock.

The detective gives him a few precious seconds to breathe before going back in for more.

There’s a knock at the door. Malcolm assumes he’s imagining it. 

The two detectives hesitate, but when Williams continues to fuck up into their toy, they pick up where they left off.

“The door’s locked,” the Sergeant reminds them. “The only one with a key is Mrs. Whitly.”

Paulson chuckles. “If you gave me some time, I’d be up for a two for one.”

 _It’s real?_ Malcolm thinks and finds the energy to struggle. The thought of his mother in their hands reignites something in him. He strains against the cuffs, twisting his wrists and trying to break the chain, slip his hands through, something. He screams in rage when a hand grabs his, forcing them still. 

Somewhere else in his apartment, there’s a loud crash. “Bright?”

He’s never been so happy to hear Gil’s voice in his life. Malcolm snaps his jaw shut.

Morgan _howls_.

Williams tries to get his gun out, but he’s still shocked, and it slows him down.

Of the three of them, Paulson is the only one who manages to pull away, his still erect dick sliding out of the profiler and bobbing between his legs as he rushes to get to his own firearm. 

There’s a gunshot.

Malcolm opens his mouth and pushes himself up on weak knees. He flops onto his back, wincing as the Sergeant’s cock is tugged out by the move. He spits more blood onto the duvet and surveys the room. On the floor next to the bed, Morgan is sobbing and clutching his bleeding crotch. Williams is frozen a few feet away, hands in the air. 

And Paulson is on the ground in front of Gil, holding his knee and screaming in agony. 

Malcolm lets the laugh escape his chest. It’s a croak more than anything, but it’s happy. “ _Gil_ ,” he gasps. “‘M glad you’re here.”

“Me, too, kid. Can you get up?” The Lieutenant’s face is empty. 

Whatever energy he regained is spent, and he tells him so. 

“That’s fine,” Gil says calmly. “The ambulance will be here soon, so hang in there.”

Malcolm nods. He wants to refuse, but he still feels like he’s dying, and he’s not sure how bad they wrecked him with the minimal prep. 

Gil’s eyes narrow at the lack of argument, and if backup wasn’t already on the way, Malcolm would swear he would kill all three of them without a thought.

He barely manages to stay awake long enough to see the cops cuffed and taken away.

The next time he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed. He doesn’t have time to freak out, because the first thing he sees is Gil. 

The older man is coming out of the attached bathroom. Everything about him looks weary. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes are dark, and his mouth is solemn. “Hey, kid,” he says when he sees him awake. 

“Hey.” That one syllable hurts like hell. He doesn’t try again.

Gil takes the empty seat right next to the bed. He holds his hand out, palm up, as an offer. It trembles.

Malcolm takes it. His wrists are both bandaged, likely ripped open by his struggles with the handcuffs. 

“I’m sorry,” Gil says, voice breaking. His grip on the younger man’s hand is approaching painful. “I should have noticed. I saw them nearly every day. I —” He cuts himself off as his voice rises in anger. “You weren’t answering your phone, and I knew you went to see your father in the hospital.”

Malcolm squeezes his hand. He wants to tell him thank you, that it’s not his fault, that none of them noticed despite all three of the cops working in the same precinct for years. Instead, he lets the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“Okay, kid, I hear you.” Gil gives him a weak smile back. He leans back in his seat, prepared to stay for as long as Malcolm wants him to.


End file.
